Fearful Symmetry

by C F Dunn

  I almost choked. “Therapist?”

  “For her eating disorder. She refuses to eat with the other kids and she’s been caught spitting food out when she thinks no one is looking. It’s the recommendation of our Child Development specialist. I know it can be a shock,” she said, gently, “but with early intervention, it’s amazing what can be done.”

  We waited for her outside, standing apart from the other parents where we couldn’t be overheard.

  “I don’t believe it!” I fumed, ramming my hands into my pockets.

  “It certainly doesn’t ring true,” Matthew agreed.

  “You don’t seem very upset.”

  “Upset? Why should we be? It’s hardly an accurate assessment of our daughter, is it? I’m more concerned that they referred her to a Child Development specialist.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the data might be collated and entered into the system. We should have been consulted and then we could have prevented this. One thing’s for certain: she can’t stay at the school. Still,” he said, “before we act, we’d better have a chat with Rosie and see what she’s been up to.” The school bell shrilled, heralding a multicoloured stampede of children. “Here she comes now.”

  Rosie shot out of the door, instantly recognizable by her Red-Setter hair and determined expression, and headed towards the school gates. Before she had gone more than a few steps, she turned around at the sound of her name, and a couple of older children of about eight or nine emerged from the building. They called to her and she stopped, uncertain. Clearly, through the general end-of-day commotion, came a mocking chant. “Lazy Daisy, crazy lady, out, out, out…”

  Her face clouded and she dropped her bag. Her fists bunched.

  “Oh, no…” I started forward, but Matthew was already ahead of me.

  “Rose!” At the sound of his voice, she lowered her arm. He reached her, and bending down, spoke. She nodded and took his hand. He turned, and fixed her persecutors with a steely eye, said something short and to the point, and they scarpered along the pavement, bags banging against their legs as they ran.

  “They laughed at me.”

  Matthew lifted her onto the wooden climbing frame he had built beside the orchard, from which I could keep an eye on her from beneath the shade of the summer trees. “Who did, sweetheart?”

  “The children did. When I first went to school, Miss Thompson asked what the moon is and I telled her.”

  “What exactly did you tell her?”

  “I said a moon is a sat’llite that orbits a planet and that Earth has one moon, but Jupiter has lots and lots and I like Io best because it looks like a marble, and Amalthea because it’s orangey-red like a berry.” She imitated popping something into her mouth and scrambled to the top of the frame in seconds. “I said our moon reg’lates the tides and luna cycles and luna means moon in Latin and I like Latin, but Miss Thompson said nobody likes a know-it-all and the children laughed at me and I said my daddy told me and he and my mummy know lots of things.” She crossed the balance beam, hopped onto the slide and emerged moments later at the bottom. “But she asked me a question, Daddy,” she added indignantly, “and I answered it.”

  I removed the piece of chipped bark from Theo’s dribbly fist and put him in the baby swing by the mulberry tree. “So, now when you’re asked a question, you pretend you don’t know the answer, is that it?”

  “Yes.” She danced over to the monkey bars, skimmed up a pole, and began swinging from one to the next.

  “Rosie, what do you like best about preschool?”

  Dangling from the middle bar with one hand, she paused. “Going home,” she said, letting go and landing lightly. “Can we go and see Ollie now, please?”

  “Harry!” she squealed when we entered the courtyard to find him sitting on my bench soaking up the sun, and ran to meet him.

  He swung her in an arc. “Hey, Chipmunk! How’s my favourite great-aunt?” She giggled as he tipped her upside down. “And is Ottery behaving himself?” He addressed her toy otter. She wrinkled her nose at him.

  “He’s always doing this,” she said, making her otter dance on Harry’s chest.

  “Hi, Harry,” I greeted him.

  “Emma, how are you?” He hugged me warmly, pulling a face at Theo in my arms and making him laugh. “And how’s my little man? Not so little, huh? Whew, you’ve grown,” he said, taking him from me, and then lighting in a grin as he saw Matthew. “Thought I’d stop by and catch up, if that’s OK with you both?”

  Matthew embraced him. “You know you are always welcome. Come inside and tell us your news.”

  Matthew gave Theo a piece of cucumber to gnaw and cool his gums. “So, you were just passing. Colorado via Maine: a bit out of your way, isn’t it?”

  Harry put his glass down on the table, leaving a moustache of milk across his lip, and wiggled his eyebrows at the children. “Yeah, well, I’ve been to see Gran and Gramps.”

  “Ah.” Matthew’s expression gave nothing away of the sudden flush of painful regret that ripped through him. “How are they?”

  “Gran misses Maine; she doesn’t like the Arizona heat.”

  “And Henry?”

  Harry borrowed Theo’s discarded bib and wiped the milk from his lip. “He’s OK.”

  “Would you like to elaborate?”

  He folded the bib several times, then glanced at Rosie, who listened with wide-eyed interest.

  I lifted Theo out of his high chair. “Rosie, please take Theo and read him his favourite book; he likes it best when you read to him.”

  “I want to hear Harry’s story,” she objected.

  “Rose,” I warned, and she reluctantly slid off her chair and hefted Theo into her arms, his legs dangling. Harry waited until the kitchen door swung shut.

  “He hasn’t said so, but Gramps is still kinda mad at you.” He paused, rotating the empty glass on the table in front of him. “He’s stopped dying his hair grey, won’t wear glasses or contacts any more, and he’s shaved.” He glanced up. “He looks like you, Matthew – just like you.”

  Matthew didn’t respond, but twisted his worn signet ring until it sat true on his finger. He pressed the pad of his index finger onto the deep engraving, examining the resulting light imprint of his family coat of arms. “Has he said anything else?”

  “He hasn’t mentioned you. Gran won’t say anything, of course – she won’t be disloyal – but she misses the family and seeing the children – and you, Emma; she really misses you. But Gramps won’t change his mind. I’ve tried talking to him, but he changes the subject, and if I press him, he just gets up and walks out.”

  Matthew nodded, his mouth raised in a scant smile. “He was stubborn even as a boy.” He took the remains of Theo’s tea to the sink, and began washing the plate. “I could always talk him around, but then in the past he always trusted me and listened to what I had to say.” He leant his hands on the edge of the sink and bowed his head, water flowing pointlessly. Harry and I swapped worried looks. Rising, I went over and switched off the tap and placed a tentative hand on his back.

  “Matthew?”

  “Four years, Emma. He won’t even acknowledge my letters.”

  “Give him time, darling…”

  He rounded on me, taking me by surprise, his eyes flaring. “Time? I have time, but with each year that passes, his grows less, until…” He brought his temper under control, but it stemmed not from anger, but frustration and guilt. “Four years. He’s not seen Rosie since she was barely a month old and he’s never even met his brother,” he finished, in shades of despair.

  “Daddy?” We hadn’t seen Rosie come into the kitchen and now she tugged anxiously at his sweater, her scattering of freckles coppery in the afternoon sun. Wordlessly, he bent down and picked her up, his face hidden in her vibrant hair. A crash came from another room.

  “Golly. Theo,” I said, and rushed to find him. A strange twanging sound came from the study. Theo looked around as I opened the door, his hand
raised. He smiled his gummy grin. On the floor in front of him lay the lute-like cittern. He thumped it with a stout hand, making the wires vibrate tinnily. He gurgled, dribbling.

  “He’s teething, huh?” Harry came in and sat cross-legged next to us on the floor. “I don’t think I was as good-tempered when I was cutting teeth.”

  I wiped my son’s chin. “I doubt you were as bad as Joel makes out.”

  “I think I probably was.” He plucked a string, sending a thin, clear note into the air. “Matthew taught me to play the cittern. I thought it was a strange instrument to play, but then…” He shrugged.

  “His grandmother taught him when he was a boy. Citterns were all the rage when she was young.”

  He ran his fingers across the strings, thinking. Theo bounced and waved his arms in response. “That must have been, when… fifteen-o-something?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Strange.” He picked up the instrument and balanced it on his knee. “It’s strange, but now that I know his story, I find I don’t have the same doubts I used to. Remember? When we were decorating that Christmas tree?”

  “I remember.”

  He nodded, and played a few notes. “Joel and Ellie are OK with it; Dad, too. Mum not so much. She pretty well freaked out. You know how she always thought we were abnormal? Yeah, well, now she thinks Matthew’s some kind of monster.” He plucked hard at a string, sounding a harsh note like a broken piano wire, and Theo’s mouth opened in an exaggerated “o”. “Sorry, little fella.” He strummed softly, picking up a melody I’d often heard Matthew play in the early, sleepless hours before dawn. “Your dad’s no monster. I was thinking about it, and it occurred to me that Matthew’s as much part of creation as I am. I reckon he’s not cursed by this life, but blessed, whatever he might think sometimes.” He coloured slightly under his tan. “That’s what I think, anyway.”

  “And I think you’re right, Harry. Who are we to second-guess God? ‘God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. He plants His footsteps in the sea and rides upon the storm.’”

  “I don’t know that. Is it Old Testament?”

  “Er, not exactly. William Cowper, an eighteenth-century English poet.”

  Harry smiled and shook his head. “I should have guessed it would have something to do with history. I wonder if Matthew ever met him?”

  I grinned. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “I didn’t. I’d left England by then.” Matthew moved from where he and Rosie stood by the door. “I see you can still play, Harry.”

  Harry held the cittern out to him. “Not as well as you, Old Man.”

  Matthew smiled, losing the lost look of moments before as he took it. “I’ve had a good deal more practice. Rosie’s coming on, though, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

  I made room for Matthew and Rosie to join us on the floor. “Theo wants to learn too, by the look of it.” Theo obliged my maternal pride by grabbing the end of the cittern and trying to chew it. Matthew removed it from his grasp and instead showed him how to pluck a string. He watched, enthralled. A ribbon of envy scrolled out of Rosie.

  “Perhaps you could show Theo how to play, Rosie?” I suggested, and she agreed with alacrity, balancing the cittern awkwardly across her stretched-out legs. Harry watched the children for a few moments. From the pocket of his jeans he pulled a mobile phone. “Would it be OK if I take a photo of Emma and the kids? Pat would love to see them – Dad, too. I’ll make sure you’re not in it,” he added, as Matthew hesitated.

  “Go ahead, but don’t print them out or send them a soft copy. We made that mistake before. Keep them on your phone and then delete them as soon as you can.”

  “Sure. No one else will see them.” Harry took several shots of the children and me bathed in soft evening light. He then handed the phone to us. “Thought you might like to see some of Charlie; he’s grown so much in the last few months.” He had indeed. We hadn’t seen him since Easter and the slim little boy gazed thoughtfully at the camera with dark eyes, his oak-brown hair curling on his forehead. He looked more like Guy than Dan now.

  “I guess it’s better he doesn’t look much like a Lynes,” Harry commented. “He won’t have to find ways of making himself look different.” I couldn’t find anything to say, and Matthew filled the awkward gap.

  “Hopefully we’ll see him before too long. I’ve asked Ellie, your father, Joel – and Maggie, of course – if they’ll join us for Thanksgiving. Do you think you can make it this year, Harry?”

  His smile broadened into a grin. “If Emma’s cooking, try and stop me!”

  “I’ll put the oven on,” I muttered. “The turkey’ll have to climb in by itself. I expect Matthew will end up doing most of it.”

  Harry laughed. “With an invitation like that, I couldn’t refuse.”

  In a single elegant movement, Matthew stood. He retrieved something from his desk and slipped an envelope into Harry’s hand. “Henry doesn’t answer my letters and I don’t know whether he even opens them. If you see him, please give this to him and do whatever you can to make sure he reads it.”

  Harry looked down at the heavy cream envelope decorated in Matthew’s fine script, his good-natured features sombre. “Sure. I won’t leave until he does.”

  “Thank you.” Matthew clasped his shoulder, straightened and conjured a lighter mien.

  “Now,” he said, “tell us what you’ve been up to.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Special Delivery

  “I’m so pleased for you.” I hugged Matias and got a bristly kiss in return. “Matthew told me; I hope you don’t mind. What a relief. Now perhaps you can get on with life and look forward to this little chaplet’s arrival.” I patted Elena’s bump as I passed her. “And all those sleepless nights, sicky bits on your shoulder, colic, nappies…”

  “Cheers.” Matias accepted the beer and sat down on the sofa, making it wheeze. “I’m having second thoughts about this; can we send it back?”

  Elena flicked her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Don’t be silly, Matias. Emma, what is nappees?”

  “Diapers,” I clarified. “It’s so hot for late September. Sit down and take the weight off your feet while you can.”

  She slid a sly smile in her husband’s direction. “Matias has been doing a lot of that lately.”

  He stretched his arm out along the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “I have to get some training in, you understand. It’s never too soon to start. I’m baked – and it’s not just this heat. That husband of yours must have been a slave driver in another life.”

  “No, not that I’m aware of,” I murmured.

  “Well, he certainly knows how to crack the whip when he wants to, that’s for sure.” He opened one eye and peered at me. “Do you know how many times I’ve run the data on the gene sequences through that wretched program?” I took a sip of iced tea and shook my head. “No, well, neither have I. I’ve done it that often I’ll be doing it in my sleep next. What the heck is he looking for? Has he said? Because he sure hasn’t told us. Sung asked him outright the other day, and Matthew just smiled and gave him another sequence to analyse. Even Megan’s seeing him in a new light, and it isn’t favourable. What’s he playing at?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “Matias snores,” Elena giggled. “He sounds like a pig.” She imitated him and prodded his stomach with a painted nail. Matias grunted, looking put out.

  “I wouldn’t mind so much, but Matthew makes me feel old just looking at him. Bet he doesn’t snore,” he grumbled. “He doesn’t even look tired.” I was saved from finding an answer as the shrill tone of the doorbell cut through the limpid afternoon heat.

  The scent of dry earth and shrivelled grasses accompanied the gush of warm air as I opened the door. A man in a brown uniform and plain peaked cap held out a parcel. Sweat darkened patches beneath his arms.

  “Matthew Lynes?”

  “No. I mean, he’s not in, but he lives
here.”

  The man’s eyes roamed the shaded hall behind me before coming back to rest on my face. “Delivery,” he stated. “Sign here.” He produced a handheld gadget with an electronic signature box. It smelled new and plasticky and the smooth black surface felt hot in my hands. I did a quick squiggle and exchanged it for a parcel the size of a shoebox.

  “Ma’am,” he said, and returned to the waiting van puking fumes into the overheated afternoon air.

  I left the parcel on Matthew’s desk and went back to my friends. “Package for Matthew,” I said.

  Matias squinted at his watch. “At this hour?”

  “Must be a special delivery. You’re empty; want a top-up?”

  He proffered his glass. “Bet it’s more supplies for these darn tests he’s been running. Careful, Em, or he’ll start experimenting on you; you know what these science types are like.”

  Elena snorted, spilling drops of cordial on her maternity dress. “You like experimenting with me.”

  I held up a hand. “Too much information, thanks. I have a paper to write on ‘Cardinal Sin and the Rebirth of the Reformation’ and I don’t need any such distractions.”

  Elena smirked. “Da, you’ve already made two little distractions. Do you think you’ll have a third?”

  “Golly, girl, Theo’s only seven months old, give me a chance.”

  “I want lots of babies,” she declared. “They will all look like their father – little teddy bears. Cute, just like Theo.” She bounced my son on her knees, kissing him when he laughed.

  “Even the girls?” Matias said with a grimace.

  “All of them,” she declared, wrinkling her nose at the baby.

  “Now I know there’s another man. Emma, keep an eye on Matthew or I’ll be doing a paternity test as soon as the umbilical’s cut. Mind you, I wouldn’t mind some of his DNA; might stave off old age.” He winked and I pretended to find it amusing, but my insides wound up in knots at the thought of it. I should have been used to it by now, but the truth was that comments like this were becoming increasingly frequent and I wondered how much longer they would remain jests before they became barbed.